by Jason Heaton
“Our best hope is the fishing fleet, come morning,” she replied. “Let’s save our torch batteries and if we hear a boat, we can raise our marker buoys and shine our lights on them. Hope someone’s paying attention.”
Tusker was lying on his back, as if on a raft. The buoyancy wing was more than enough to keep him afloat, but the wing pushed him face-down unless he kicked. Every once in a while, the clouds parted and he caught sight of a few stars.
“Anything dangerous out here, Miss Marine Biologist?” he called out in the darkness. He thought of the hundreds of fathoms of black water under his dangling feet.
“Not really,” she replied. “We get the occasional Portuguese man o’ war, but the shark fin trade has been merciless on anything big with teeth out here. Well, unless you count the sperm whales.”
“So, what do you think happened to Roland?” Sam asked. “That anchor line looked like it was cut.”
“Could have been any number of things,” Tusker replied. “If the current got strong at the surface, or the swells got big, it could have been tough for him to keep the boat in place. The anchor line could have chafed and finally parted on the gunwale…”
“Or he could have cut it intentionally,” she said coldly.
“What makes you think that?” Tusker asked, surprised at her tone. “Is there something about Roland I don’t know?”
“He showed up a few months back and offered to help Thathi in exchange for free room and board and some occasional diving,” Sam said. “But I think he’s into something else.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. He comes and goes at odd times with some shifty-looking guys. And then there were the girls.” She paused. “I saw him in Batticaloa once handing a wad of cash to one that looked suspiciously young. I’ve also seen him chatting up schoolgirls.”
“Yeah, I gathered he’s a bit of a pig,” Tusker said, remembering how he was leering at Anja, the Swedish girl. “But cutting the anchor line is a bit more serious than being a dirty old man.”
“He also seemed a little too interested in what Upali was doing here. Asked a lot of questions about their plans, what they were looking for.”
“Your father seemed to tolerate him,” Tusker tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe help was on the way. Leaving them adrift on the ocean was tantamount to attempted murder.
“Thathi needed the help and was willing to look the other way,” she said. “I used to be around a lot more to help with the resort and the divers. But with my work and all the traveling…”
They floated in silence for a while. At the surface the water was warm and, even with the breeze and his exhaustion, it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. The swells had become gentle and lapped at the top of his head, where it was tipped back in the water. It reminded Tusker of summer nights swimming in the shallow lake at his family’s cabin in Michigan. But here, of course, the next landfall south of Sri Lanka is Antarctica.
________________________________________
Tusker opened his eyes. Had he fallen asleep? Damn it! He bolted upright with a splash and swiveled around in the darkness. “Sam!” he called. No answer. “Sam!” Again, louder. In the distance, he saw a flicker. A pin prick of light danced at water level. Sam. He flipped onto his back and kicked hard, doing an awkward but effective backstroke in the direction of the light. Every now and then he stopped and sat up to make sure he was going the right way. The light was getting bigger now, and he could hear Sam calling his name and splashing towards him.
After 15 minutes of hard swimming, they came together in a clumsy, panting embrace. “Oh god, Sam, I’m so sorry.”
“Me too, me too,” she replied. He buried his face in her wet hair and clutched her hard to him.
“We’ve got to stay together. We can sleep in shifts,” he said with newfound authority. He peered at the hands of his watch. 1:30. Four more hours until dawn. It would be light earlier than that.
The adrenaline from the swim had woken him up. He didn’t let go of Sam’s waist. He knew her face was directly in front of his, though he could only make out the silhouette of her head. On an impulse, he leaned in and kissed her hard, where he thought her mouth was.
“Owww!” she shouted as they knocked foreheads. They both burst out laughing. He let go of her waist and backed away but clutched her hand. They lay back on the water, still breathing hard. The clouds had cleared and the sky was a black canvas, pinned with bright stars.
“Do you know your constellations?” Tusker finally asked. “I know the usual suspects but this close to the equator, it gets a little more confusing. Or maybe we’ve even drifted into the Southern Hemisphere by now.”
“I know a few,” she replied. “My mother used to teach me…” Her voice trailed off.
“She was killed,” she said, before he could ask. Her voice was cold suddenly. “She was working at the World Trade Center in Colombo when a Tamil Tiger suicide bomber walked in and blew himself up.”
“Wow, I’m so… sorry.” Tusker’s reply felt feeble.
Sam continued. “She was a wonderful woman. I was only eleven when she died, but I remember how kind she was. Always told me I could do anything with my life. Thathi says I remind him of her.”
“I’m sure she’d be very proud of who you’ve become,” Tusker said. “Your father never remarried?”
“He never was the same after she died. She was the love of his life.”
Tusker gave her hand a squeeze. “Why don’t you sleep a bit,” he said. “I’m wide awake now and can keep an eye out.”
“We’re going to be OK, right?” Her voice sounded small, vulnerable.
“Of course,” he lied. “Come morning, I’m sure we’ll see we’re only a few hundred meters off of a perfect white sand beach.”
She didn’t laugh, or reply. But even in the dark, Tusker could tell she wasn’t asleep.
Strange Catch
Pottuvil, Sri Lanka. The next morning.
It was another bad haul, and now the motor was acting up. Chandin had been coaxing it along for months, cleaning the spark plugs and adding oil every night. It was only a matter of time before it would need an overhaul. But with the fishing so bad, it was all he could do to pay for his gas from the day’s catch. Every night, he sailed his 32-foot trawler further out, hoping to find a new reef or fishing ground that no one had discovered yet. One shark would feed his family for a month and pay for the motor’s repair, but he hadn’t caught one in years.
The anemic engine chugged along at half its usual rpms. It would be well past 8:00 when they’d get back to the beach and another hour before he’d have his small pile of kingfish, barracuda, and squid at the market. Ajith, his son, slept curled up in the bow on a heap of old nets, still with the peace of youth, unencumbered by the worry that plagued Chandin.
The boat wallowed over the lazy swells, and the sun rose over Chandin’s left shoulder. Seven miles ahead, the shoreline appeared in the morning haze of sea spray, wood smoke and diesel exhaust. Another fishing boat was on the horizon to the south, angling in towards Pottuvil. He recognized the gaily painted cabin as that of Mulan, and he wondered what kind of night he’d had. Looks like he went out far too, thought Chandin.
He heard a faint shout, barely audible above the chugging engine. He cut the rpms and listened. There it was again. It couldn’t have been Mulan. He was too far away, but he didn’t see another boat. He reduced to idle speed and came out on the front deck, stepping deftly over the fishing tackle with his bare feet. “Ajith!” He gave him a nudge and the boy sat up and rubbed his eyes. “I heard something. Help me look.” He spoke in Tamil.
The sea was still grey in the morning light, with a few whitecaps rolling towards the distant coast. Fifty meters off the starboard bow he caught a flash of color. It disappeared below a roller, then reappeared. It was a bright orange tube, somehow floating vertically in the water. Then — yes! — a person. Two people, in fact, both waving their arms at him. What were they
doing this far off shore, and this early in the morning? Had their boat capsized? He shouted back to them and ran to the cabin, shouting to Ajith to keep an eye on them.
Chandin pushed the throttle forward and the motor sluggishly came to life. He spun the wheel to swing the boat near to them, then cut the motor to idle speed and drifted up alongside.
The white man said something in a choked, hoarse voice. It was English, and Chandin couldn’t understand. He could see that the man’s lips were cracked and his face was weathered and pale. The woman looked drugged, barely able to hold on to the side of the boat. How long had they been in the water? Ajith and Chandin leaned over the side and awkwardly pulled them on board. The big man tumbled on to the deck and lay there, contorted and shivering. The father and son were able to hoist the woman fairly easily and they leaned her against the netting in the bow. Both of them wore wetsuits and diving fins, which Chandin quickly wrenched off their feet.
“Ajith, water!” he instructed tersely in Tamil. Ajith ran to the cabin and came back with a full two-liter plastic bottle. Chandin took it from him and poured some into the woman’s mouth. She gulped at it and then gagged and vomited on the deck. “Himming, himming,” Chandin said in Sinhala, hoping she would understand. She nodded weakly and drank again, this time swallowing. Chandin did the same for the man, who had managed to pull himself next to the woman and prop himself up. He held the water in his mouth for a while before swallowing.
Chandin ran back to the cabin and pushed the throttle forward, bringing the old boat to life. He decided to risk the motor. These people were in rough shape. The bow wallowed at first, then careened up and over each successive swell. The shoreline drew closer and he could see men out raking the sand in front of the tourist hotels. As he neared the small beach just south of the point, he throttled back and, without pausing, motored through the cut in the reef. Normally he wouldn’t take it so fast, but he’d done this a thousand times and knew exactly where his hull would make it without scraping bottom.
“Ajith, quickly, throw out the anchor!” His son was already waiting with the small grapple in his hand and he threw it over the side, then took up the slack to hold the boat fast in four feet of water. Chandin cut the motor and came out of the cabin. He and Ajith roused the man and woman. Their Tamil was met with blank stares. “Ajith, take an arm,” Chandin said, and threaded his own arm under the woman’s. A small crowd of fishermen had gathered in the waist-deep water at the beach. Chandin beckoned them to help and two rail-thin men waded out to the boat. Chandin and Ajith lowered the woman over the side into the water into the men’s arms. They carried her to the beach and set her alongside a small skiff that had been pulled up there, then ran back out for the man.
“This one’s heavy,” Chandin said, and he and Ajith half lowered, half dropped the man into the water, where the two fishermen struggled to keep him upright, dragging him by his armpits up next to the woman. Ajith followed, carrying the diving fins.
“Who are they?”
“Where did they come from?”
“What will you do with them?” The crowd had grown around the couple slumped on the sand, passed out.
Chandin raised his hands to the group and calmly said, “They are in a bad way. If a few of you will kindly help, we will take them to our house, give them something to eat and drink, and let them sleep. Then we will see how to get them home.”
The Kindness of Strangers
Pottuvil, Sri Lanka. That evening.
Tusker awoke to the smell of food. It was both incredibly appetizing and revolting. Pungent fish, oil, spices. Nearby, he could hear the clanging of a spoon in a pan, something frying.
Where was he? His eyes adjusted to the dark, and he lifted his head to look around. He was lying on a low bed in a small room. It was almost completely unadorned, with whitewashed walls and a single high window with flimsy curtains. Across from him, against the wall, was a table with a small statue on it. He recognized it as the Hindu god, Ganesha, with its distinctive elephant’s head. Sticks of incense stood unlit around it and a garland of flowers was draped over the back of the makeshift shrine.
Next to him, he heard a groan. Sam was lying on an identical bed across from his. She stirred and rolled over. “Where are we?” she whispered. Tusker sat up and reached across to her. He stroked her hair.
“I don’t know, but we’re alive,” he said. “I’ve got a pounding headache. Must be dehydration.” A bottle of water sat on the floor between the beds and he reached for it.
“We don’t know how clean that is,” Sam said to him. “I’m used to drinking the water here, but if you get diarrhea, it’ll only dehydrate you more.”
“I’m willing to risk that,” he chuckled. “I swallowed so much seawater, I’m desiccated.” He chugged at the bottle. It tasted of iodine. Someone had thoughtfully purified it for them. He passed it to Sam and she drank deeply from it.
“Slide over,” Tusker said and shimmied on to Sam’s bed. It was barely big enough for one, and groaned under his added 200-pound weight.
“Don’t you think we should go find out where we are?” Sam whispered, leaning up on one elbow to look at him. Tusker was shirtless, still in his swim trunks. She wore her bikini, but with a loose salwar top on over it. She didn’t know how she’d gotten it. Even in the dark, she could see the creases in Tusker’s face, his cracked lips. She licked her own and then bent over and kissed him. He put his arm around her and pulled her down. She laid with her head on his shoulder and draped her arm over his naked stomach. His skin was cool and she could feel the dried salt on it. The smell of his sweat excited her.
“You need a bath,” she said in a scolding whisper and feigned pushing him away. He pulled her tighter and she giggled. Tusker could feel her breasts against his side and her soft hair on his shoulder. He closed his eyes. They laid like that, clutching each other, for a long time.
When he awoke, Sam was still draped across him, breathing deeply. He held up his arm and squinted at his watch. 6:20. Day or night? He had lost all sense of time. He could only vaguely recall being hauled out of the sea in the morning, but he couldn’t be sure which day.
He gently lifted Sam’s arm, laid it down on the hard mattress, and stood up. His legs ached, cramped from being in the water for so long. From the next room, he could hear a TV or radio playing. Hindi music. He was suddenly ravenous. When was the last time we ate? He slipped across the cool concrete floor to the doorway, which was hung with a simple rod and fabric curtain. He peered out. A small woman was standing at a two-burner gas cooker, stirring something. His sudden appearance startled her.
“Hello!” Tusker said and smiled, hoping to put her at ease. She nodded and bowed slightly, avoiding eye contact. She could have only come up to his chest and weighed maybe 85 pounds. In this tiny house, where his head nearly reached the ceiling, Tusker must have seemed a giant.
She spoke. “Tea?” She held up a chipped cup.
“Yes, please,” Tusker replied and nodded exaggeratedly. She didn’t seem to speak English, but lifted the pot from the burner and poured it expertly into the cup. It was pale with powdered milk already added, and when she handed him the cup, it was scalding hot. “Isthuthi,” he said, hoping she spoke Sinhala, though he suspected this was a Tamil household, judging from the Hindu shrine in the bedroom. She looked at him and smiled.
She said something to him in Tamil. He shook his head quizzically. “Badagini?” she repeated, this time in Sinhala. Hungry? He nodded again and she smiled and gestured for him to sit at the small table in the room. It was a tiny house. The dining table sat opposite the tiny cooking space and beyond it, a sitting room with a simple rattan bench, some pillows, and a few plastic chairs. In the corner of the room was a rolled-out mat and some sheets. This is where she had slept, presumably with the fisherman who’d rescued them. They’d given up their own room for him and Sam.
The woman scraped at some pots in the kitchen and turned to hand Tusker a plate heaped with rice and so
me curries. He sat at the table and without a word tucked into the steaming food with his fingers. The food, a few vegetables cooked in coconut milk, lentils and dried fish was spicy and delicious. Tusker wiped the sweat from his brow with his forearm between bites. The woman stood and watched him from the kitchen. When he finished, he sat back in the chair and exhaled. She set a small bowl of lime water in front of him to wash his fingers. “Hari hondai.” He grinned, his face flushed. He felt human again. The woman smiled back at him.
“Oyage nona?” she gestured to the room. She thought Sam was his wife. Tusker nodded and stood up. He exaggeratedly tiptoed to the room and held back the curtain. In the light from the other room, he could see that Sam was awake. She was sitting up, rubbing her eyes.
“I just had the best meal of my life,” he said to her. “I don’t know who these people are, but they gave us their room and she just fed me enough food for an entire family.”
“That’s the way it usually is here,” Sam replied. “The ones with the least to give, give the most.”
